


Like Little Jewels

by NorroenDyrd



Series: To Taste an Altus [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Boys In Love, Chubby Inquisitor, Crush at First Sight, Cutesy, Dorks in Love, Dragon Age Quest: In Hushed Whispers, Dysfunctional Family, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 08:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12128646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: A collection  of drabbles, one-shots, and Tumblr prompts, dedicated to the relationship between Dorian Pavus and Inquisitor Wyon Lavellan - a chubby, insecure city elf baker who was dragged into adventuring by his wife (via arranged marriage), as she had to save her mage son from the Templars.





	1. First Blush

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 was also featured in the separate First Blush story.

'All right, all right,' Dorian says to himself, after he has splashed his way to the corner of the dungeon that is not taken up by an enormous, sloshing dark-green puddle, and finished casting a crackling, orange-aura spell on his tall dainty boots to get his feet dry.  
  
'Let's assume we are still in Redcliffe... Then, the question would be not where we are, but when we are... We might have been moved forward into the future!'  
  
'You think it's that... that time magic... thing... at work again? Can it do that?' the city elf Herald  asks, in a very odd, stifled voice, which turns into a tiny squeak by the end of the sentence, as if he was a bird hatchling, held up in a human's fist and about to be squashed into a lifeless ball of feathers.  
  
The Tevinter grimaces in distaste at the prospect of stepping into the water again - but still wades back to where Lavellan stands and peers into his face.  
  
'Why are you talking like this?' he asks, eyebrow raised. 'Are you quite all right... Wyon, was it? Let me take a look to see if you have been injured; I must admit we never accounted for a non-mage using the... Wait, are you sucking in your stomach?'  
  
Wyon exhales and then lets out a sheepish (even helpless) laugh.  
  
He is no healer, but he once heard an alienage elder explain that all bodies react differently to not getting enough food. In the case of some people, hunger turns their bodies into greedy hoarders, obsessed with building up as much fat as they can whenever their owners eat even the measliest morsel. Such was Wyon's fate.  
  
Much as the city guards loved pushing him out of the crowd before the Chantry inspectors, as proof that 'our elves are fat and content; they live a life of plenty', he is, in fact, no better-fed than the rest of the 'mangy alienage rabbits'. He just has the misfortune of getting chubby easily. This would often make him the butt of other elves' jokes, and he accepted that, with a quiet, meek smile. If poking fun at his pudgy belly and his dumpling-like face brightened up a dreary day in the oppressive cage of the alienage walls - well then, he was happy to make himself useful.  
  
Now, on the other hand... Now, things are different. Now, he is having an insane time-travelling adventure in the company of the most impeccably handsome man he has ever seen: owner of a smoothly chiselled profile, with not a line out of place, like those awe-inspiring statues in Val Royeaux, and a soft, sensual mouth curve, and that shemlen thing under his nose that actually does not look ludicrous on him and perfectly completes his face... And, walking sheepishly in this man's shadow, never before has poor little Wyon been more painfully aware of his own piteously comical appearance.  
  
So he has, indeed, been trying to hold his breath and flatten his ridiculous, wobbly stomach, to keep this... mesmerizing vision of utter beauty from twisting in disgust.  
  
When, disoriented by Dorian's question, he lets himself go, his vision grows dim with unshed tears.  
  
'I... I have been trying... to look my best... Like... Like less of a... potato...' he mumbles weakly, his insides boiling with the sickening realization of what utter nonsense he is spouting.  
  
'Well, aren't you adorable!' Dorian chortles.  
  
Then, he lifts his foot out of the water, like a cat that has stepped into something sticky, and adds,  
  
'How about you and I clean up this Venatori mess first? Then, the people of Thedas will laud you as the most heroic potato of them all! Not that there was anything potato-like about you in the first place'.  
  
Varric would whack him on the head with Bianca for this, but Wyon really, really would have preferred it if the red wave splashing against his face came from a nearby corrupted lyrium crystal rather than his own blush.


	2. The Doughnut Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Wyon's first kiss.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Wyon Lavellan hits his head rhythmically against the nearby wall, squishing his stupid, stupid potato face into a wincing grimace every time and whimpering faintly - while in his head, the scene replays again and again, with an embarrassing clarity that brings tears of frustration to his eyes.  
  
  
He sees Dorian, nestled in his favourite armchair, his gaze frozen on the same spot of a book’s page and passing somewhere over the words that are printed on it. He is still upset about that meeting with his father - and understandably so; Wyon can still barely keep from bawling when he remembers the looks of pain and distress that Dorian was giving Master Halward when they snapped back and forth at each other. The initial plan for coping with the aftermath was to ‘drink himself into a stupor’ - but Wyon has been making every effort (as much as his own meekness can allow him) to discourage Dorian from indulging in this habit, as he knows too well how the oblivion of drunkenness can gradually erase all traces of reason and will to live, having seen it happen to so many of the poor in the alienage and human slums alike. And sometimes, when Wyon’s pleas get just too tearful (and maybe too annoying), Dorian listens to him.  
  
  
He listened to him this time as well, and stayed in the library instead, stewing over his own thoughts. This is how Wyon remembers him - flawlessly beautiful even when overcome by melancholy, with the evening sun’s flare highlighting his profile and drawing a pinkish halo around his hair.  
  
  
And then, he remembers himself, the silly roly-poly thing, flushed and panting heavily after coming up the stairs with a laden tray balanced carefully in his arms.  
  
  
Skyhold’s kitchens have proved a few treasure trove, stocked with the wondrous, delectable ingredients that he has previously only seen in shop windows (which sparkled with such cleanliness that he scarcely dared to breathe on them, lest his knife-ear vapour pollute the glass). And now that the once forbidden culinary luxuries are at his disposal, he has been taking great delight in learning new recipes and cooking comfort food for his companions - about the only way of expressing friendship that does not make him blush and stutter.  
  
  
To cheer up Dorian, he decided to make some soft, spongy, slightly greased pastries - doughtnuts, he thinks some call them; not as elegant as the frilly Orlesian cakes, but so very tasty, with a generous helping of jam rolled into the sugar-powdered dough.  
  
  
He can still see them, all lined up on the tray, forming a simplified outline of a smiling face with a curled moustache. And he can see the real smile that he (pathetically) tried to mimic, lighting up Dorian’s face.  
  
  
‘Why, is that me? Really my friend, you shouldn’t have! It would be a shame to destroy such a handsome visage… But oh, I am irresistible in any form! I will take one… Or two - or three! Provided that you eat with me, of course’.  
  
  
Wyon remembers Dorian’s lips, so soft and sensual, closing round the first doughnut with deliberate slowness to show how much he savoured the taste; the flick of his tongue over the sugar glazing, which made Wyon feel dizzy and red in the face as a very inappropriate thought crossed his mind; the glint of his teeth as he took the first bite… And then, the embarrassing squirt of blackberry jam, which gushed out of the dough like a tiny dark fountain, and left an ugly stain on Dorian’s beautiful silken robes (Wyon had picked out the pattern himself at the crafting table in the Undercroft, to match the colour of his eyes, and would always smile shyly into his hand whenever he saw Dorian wear the new garments out in the field or around Skyhold).  
  
  
Oh, what a horrid, horrid mishap! Wyon hits the wall with added ferocity, because he can never forgive himself for inconveniencing his friends in any way. Especially Dorian.  
  
  
And now comes the most disgraceful bit. One that makes him want to wail and tear all his hair out and then leap out of the windos, his face split by an insane grin and his eyes staring in different directions.  
  
  
He remembers himself rushing over to Dorian, napkin flapping with determination, as if the jam stain were a Fade Rift he intended to close, and wheezing frantically,  
  
  
'Don’t worry! I… I will get this! I am so, so sorry!’  
  
  
He thinks Dorian may have muttered something, about it being no trouble, and 'Maker, man, you are not my servant!’… But at the time, his words all sort of faded off, like a distant tide. All he could think of was how closely he was leaning over Dorian, how beautiful his lips were, traces of jam darkening them like make-up, and how sweet they had to taste right now… And then - then… He kissed him. By Andraste’s holy pyre, he actually kissed him!  
  
  
He brushed his mouth over his - and when Dorian’s lips parted a little, in a gasp of surprise, he drew his own wider as well, closing his eyes and taking in all that softness and sweetness, his temples pounding with the heady scent of whatever magical essence Dorian was using to perfume his clothes and skin… suddenly so strong… so intoxicating…  
  
  
He even closed his eyes - but only for a moment. The next thing her remembers was unglueing his eyelids, and darting away from Dorian so that the tray, which was still in between them, resting ln the chair’s arm rest, soared up into the air and the doughnuts plopped down all over the floor. After that, he ran, as fast as his legs could carry him, all of Skyhold turning into a burning blur.  
  
  
When he could not handle the burning any longer, he sank to the floor in some corner - and began this self-hating headbanging.  
  
  
Thump. Thump. Thump. How could he have been so brainless? How could he have allowed his infatuation, which he has been trying so hard to keep secret, get the better of him? He is no match for Dorian! Even the scruffy alienage boys were out of his league, to say nothing of this gorgeous, this incredible, this…  
  
  
'Hey, what’s wrong with you?’  
  
  
Biddy - the wife that was forced on him by alienage elders and ended up becoming a good friend of his - has stopped on her way across the hall to take a better look at Wyon, her deeply scarred face riddled with concern.  
  
  
'Why are you actin’ like a bleedin’ woodpecker?’  
  
  
'I am an idiot, Biddy, that’s why,’ Wyon groans. 'A terrible, disgusting idiot! An idiot who thinks way, way too highly of himself! An idiot who… who will never be able to face the man he loves again’.


	3. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the events of Trespasser, Dorian has a nightmare about losing Wyon.

Even though, unlike most elves he has come across, Dorian's amatus is not at all bony and wiry (the result of a regrettable dietary imbalance in alienage folk, who go starving for most of the year and only get to eat more than stale bread on the rare festive occasions), he has never been the least bit a burden when Dorian held him, worry as he might. It has always been such a joy to wrap his arms around his Wyon's soft, pear-like body, to kiss and caress all the folds and bumps, and to sweep his small, warmly flushed self around with effortless ease... But now - now he feels stiff and heavy and horribly solid, like a block of icy-cold stone carved in his image, a pointless, utterly useless statue - because statues are supposed to honour the feats of great heroes, especially after they... after they are gone. And Wyon is not gone, no, he can't be! Nor would he want a statue - he has always been so delightfully modest, and unassuming in his desires. All he has ever wanted was to flee from all this flashy court splendour, to retire from the Inquisition, and to snuggle away in a rose-covered cottage somewhere, Dorian coming to his side his side whenever he decided to use his exceptional skill and cunning to sneak away from the Magisterium.   
  
Like any self-respecting pampered Tevinter Altus, Dorian was fond of leaning back in a mockingly overdramatic pose and complain that country life would bore him out of his mind - but he never actually meant it. Of course he never meant it. Maker's beard comb, he would give anything to be in there right now - in that quaint little cottage, standing behind Wyon's back as he cooks, rose petals still stuck in his hair from ducking through a leafy doorway that was built for elves, not humans... So that Wyon would look up, letting chocolate sauce drip off the ladle that he's holding, and whisper how beautiful Dorian is, with that starry-eyed look that always makes his heart go through a series of most curious transformations, first shrinking into a tiny, hot, throbbing ball, and then swelling, till it gets too huge for Dorian's chest.  
  
And instead of responding with his usual idle and careless 'Of course I am', meant to mask how flustered he is by Wyon's look of sincere adoration, Dorian would finally drum up the courage to say, 'Not as beautiful as you are, amatus', while kissing Wyon's round, flaming, chocolate-smeared cheek.  
  
Except... It is never going to happen now, is it? He is not in that cottage, nor will he ever be. He is in the middle of a black-and-grey, scorched battlefield, and Wyon is lying lifeless in his arms, his skin tinged sickly green, and the entire left half of his body turned into a charred, porous, sticky substance, as it has been ravaged by the angry green flame of the Anchor... Which has stopped burning now. Faded like the spark of life in his beautiful, beautiful eyes. He never did mention to him what he thinks of his eyes, did he? Never did try to describe the sweet elation of catching his gaze; the bold recklessness of deciding to let that damned world pass by, do whatever it wants, while Dorian gets lost in the enchanted turquoise depths of Wyon's eyes... And now, no matter how feverishly he whispers into Wyon's leaf-like ear, no matter how sharply his voice shifts in pitch, as the steel-hard hand of pain pulls and pulls at the invisible strings inside him - Wyon will never hear him.  
  
'Yeah, I always figured that your love story would end in tragedy,' a low, husky voice says by Dorian's side. 'Even got a finale like this sketched out for my book. It was just too... unnatural to shape out in any other way'.  
  
With a shudder that seems to rip him up from within, head to toe, Dorian looks up and sees Varric, wrapped in a long black cloak, the spikes of his Viscount's crown rising over his head, giving him an eerie look... And so they should! Because it is not Varric at all - the real Varric would never call Dorian's and Wyon's feelings for one another unnatural! Oh Maker, he cannot believe it took him this long to figure it out! Fretting over Wyon has really made him lose his focus.  
  
With a self-deprecating frown and shake of his head, Dorian fires a jet of flame at 'Varric', whose stocky figure stretches out into the lanky, raggedy form of a despair demon before the spell even hits him. Wyon's dead body, too, vanishes in a puff of black smoke, and the grey battlefield is flooded by a torrent of Fade green. The demon soars off the cracked ground and screeches, showering Dorian in debilitating ice magic - which he repels with a series of barrier walls that he conjures up with swift and practiced precision. The impact of its own magic ricocheting back at it knocks the demon off-course somewhat, and Dorian seizes the opportunity while it's dazed to toss more fire balls at it.  
  
The spell’s searing sparks sizzle through the demon’s rags, making the threadbare grey cloth curl up and fray, and leaving dark oozing markings on the creature’s clammy flesh. The demon spits and hisses – and, after a few more failed attempts to get to Dorian, withdraws. Seeing it off with a couple of farewell charges of mage fire, he makes a long, slow blink – and wakes up.  
  
He finds himself reclining a bit uncomfortably in an armchair in one of the dimly lit hallways of the Blue Palace. There is a blanket wrapped round his legs, which he does not remember being there – and when, after squeezing up his bleary, stinging eyes a few times, he peers through the surrounding murk, he realizes that the cover has been placed on him by the freckled, sheepishly smiling elven boy that he has taken on as a sort of semi-apprentice. The youngster is the son of Wyon’s former wife, who was bound to him in an arranged ceremony by the alienage elders, who did not take into account that the bride was already pregnant with another elf’s child, and the groom was not attracted to women. Still, even if they were never intimate, Wyon and his wife raised the boy together (especially since his birth father wanted nothing to do with him); and even now that the marriage has been officially annulled by Divine Victoria, they all remain close friends. Dorian, too, has grown quite fond of his amatus’ ex-spouse and her son – who is a mage, and a fairly gifted one at that… and therefore needs the supervision of someone as brilliant as himself to reach his full potential. The boy, his mother, her lover Bull, Dorian, Wyon – they have come to be a sort of… family, dysfunctional and with quite convoluted relations, but somehow… far more close-knit that all Dorian could ever have hoped for in Tevinter. That is, until Wyon’s Mark started acting up, threatening to shatter their bizarre but cherished version of happiness forever.  
  
‘Uncle Wyon is up already,’ the boy informs Dorian, creasing his forehead as he attempts to coat the blanket in warm fire magic. Last time he did that, he set the bed clothes ablaze, so Dorian cautiously eels into the armchair’s corner and raises his hand to help guide the youngster’s magic if it goes sour.  
  
‘He didn’t wanna bother you, ‘cause you’d gotten so tired watching over him. He’s about to travel through one of those creepy mirrors again, with Uncle Bull and Mom and Aunt Vivienne. He told me to take great care of you, because you worry so much’.  
  
‘Not bother me?! Take care of me?!’ Dorian huffs, straightening up. ‘Nonsense! He is not going anywhere without me!’  
  
The boy chews at his lip and lowers his hands, his magic frizzling into nothing.  
  
‘Do you think he’s gonna make it?’ he asks, in a very small voice.   
  
Dorian tends to get somewhat confused around children (something tells him that his parents did not set him the best example of approaching the younger generation), but he has learned enough from his amatus to know what may be called for here. Getting up from his armchair, he gives the boy a hug and pats him on the back of his head.  
  
‘Of course he is going to make it!’ he says resolutely. ‘I will make sure of it! I am not about to let that bloody bastard break my heart!’  
  
In hindsight, he probably should not have used such mature language… but then again, the boy must have heard worse from Bull.


End file.
